Five years old and full of spunk, I bopped around the farmyard with my long, stringy, brown pigtails in my hair searching for trouble. On this particular summer, sunny Sunday, the conditions were in my favor when I stumbled across a tiny slimy green worm with legs and a tail sunbathing on a brown log. I hollered for my dad to come out of the grey barn, as I wanted to know what this creature was I had found. “Dad, what is this thing?” I summoned.
“That is a salamander,” my dad answered.  “Now we better go, so it will go back into his home.”

Curious as a cat, I couldn’t just leave the salamander on the log.  I couldn’t.  I aspired to keep him, as most five-year-olds would. Once my dad was back tinkering in the barn, I scrambled to find something I could put my salamander in. I hunted and hunted until I thought I could just put him in a red cup, but stuffed in the cup, the salamander’s tail wouldn’t fit. I had to imagine bigger, and then it came to me: a clear gallon zip-lock bag. Knowing as much as I did, I knew I couldn’t just keep him in the bag; my new pet needed food. I gathered up some special grass that was the greenest in the whole yard, a few crunchy brown leaves, and a handful of small twigs for him to play with.  Sneaking the bag containing my salamander into the house proved not a problem as my dad was in the barn, and no one else was home. My next task caused me problems, a permanent residence for my new salamander; I had to disguise him in a special spot that no one else would look: my play make-up drawer.
As the days went by without anyone finding the newest member of my family, I became bored with my latest project. Two weeks gone of still hiding my project, I had to get him out of my drawer. I mustered up all of my lying techniques like a criminal and trudged down stairs with my salamander in hand and blurted, “Mom, look at what Ryan put in my drawer.” Tears flooded my eyes, I knew this was the end; she was as mad as a bull charging after its most hated color, and I was painted red.

My mom assumed, “ I know you did it.  Your father told me about you finding a salamander.”

“I know you are mad. Just don’t hurt my salamander,” I cried out.

My mom slowly placed the Crescent News down on the light brown stand beside our massive brown recliner and walked over to me and calmly reassured me: “Please go outside and wait.”

Slowly disappointed, I drudged out the back door of our white house, and after waiting for a couple of minutes, my mom soon came outside with a milk jug and a pink camera. Not knowing what events were about to happen next, I stood there frozen in place not talking just standing there sniffing my nose from crying. I dreaded what would soon develop my most hated picture of my life; it was worse than a kindergartener’s school picture. With my picture taken, my mom then did the unexpected: she helped me build a little house for my salamander with the milk jug, and we placed his now crunchy grass, crunchy leaves, and crunchy twigs in his new jug.  For the first time the salamander came out of the bag since I put him there. With no air holes, my mom couldn’t believe he lived. We put the salamander in his new home outside under a tree in the shade. With my new pet safe, I sulked inside and ate lunch, but when I returned, however, the salamander escaped. He was nowhere to be seen. I lost my newfound pet, so I scurried off to the barn to find some barn kittens to bother.